Many Happy Regrets
by Cherielynn
Summary: A beginning Johnlock story. This story picks up right after John watches Sherlock's birthday video and before series 3 begins. I was inspired to write this after seeing the mini episode, "Many Happy Returns." No sex but many feels. My first attempt at fan fiction. :)


Many Happy Regrets

Summary: A beginning Johnlock story. This story picks up right after John watches Sherlock's birthday video and before series 3 begins. I was inspired to write this after seeing the mini episode, "Many Happy Returns." No sex but many feels. My first attempt at fan fiction. :)

As John came back into the room from answering the door, he sat down gently on the sofa. The doorbell that had interrupted him came from a courier's delivery. He carried a small envelope in his hands which he laid on the small coffee table in front of him. But, the letter could wait, he needed to finish something.

He pushed play on the DVR's remote, and Sherlock's striking face stared back at him for a brief moment, and then the man on the video winked and smiled. John let out a small, sharp exhalation of breath in an attempt to process what he'd just seen. It was the only outward betrayal of his emotions. It struck him that Sherlock's enigmatic wink might be the last thing John would see of the greatest man he'd ever know. He knew he shouldn't have viewed Sherlock's video, but there was no way the thing could have remained in his possession and not watched. That made him chuckle sardonically to himself. The only way to have kept him from viewing the last living remnant of Sherlock would've been to incinerate the thing as soon as Greg had exited his flat. He both hated and loved Greg Lestrade for bringing it to him. Before the end of the video, he'd involuntarily pushed pause and frozen his friend's face in the last frame. He couldn't help himself and stared for some time at Sherlock's devilish grin.

Looking at Sherlock's smile he felt something break in him that'd he had been tightly gripping onto for so long. John had thought a lot about Sherlock over the past two years. The timing of this video was extraordinary. Lately there had been subtle hints, invocations of Sherlock everywhere. It was almost as if he were being haunted by his best friend. Why now? Why did he see him everywhere now when he had just begun to get his life back, had even found a new love? Did that make Sherlock his previous love? Yes, he admitted. John supposed he had been had been, in a way. There was no doubt about it. Possibly these resurgences of Sherlock were simply his subconscious mind revealing the guilt he felt about letting go of Sherlock to make way for new romantic feelings. As much as he loved Mary, he might be more than a little afraid to let his feelings for Sherlock go. John knew however, it was time to move on.

He looked back at the TV and there was Sherlock's animated face smiling back at him. His piercing blue eyes revealed a twinkle just f for him. It was after all, for his birthday. The man in the video was just as he remembered him, forever frozen in memory. Then, John smiled. In that precise moment, with his friend smirking back at him from the TV screen, John understood that even though Sherlock might not have been able to attend his birthday dinner, he had wanted to be a part of it. A small part of John, a very small part, had begun to fear that he had imagined their unique friendship. However, there was no mistaking the evidence displayed right there in the video. Sherlock had cared. That's all that mattered. John let out a long-held breath, one he'd been holding in for nearly 2 years. And with that exhalation, he let it all go, his longing, his love, his anxiety, and his long-held belief that his best friend would return. And, it was good to let it go.

He touched the power button on the TV, and the screen went black. He popped out the DVD and put it back in its plastic case. It joined the other bits of paraphernalia residing in Lestrade's box. John smiled at the small collection inside and picked up the pink phone, a memento from their first case together. They had been a perfect pair.

But, as he picked up each object, unbidden memories flooded back. There were so many perfect - gemstone moments when the two of them would make eye contact and John could sense a spark both delicate and scintillating. John was never sure what to call those moments. There were times when John would look up and spot Sherlock watching him. Often times he'd catch Sherlock gazing at him with such an intense scrutiny. It seemed as if he were trying to telepathically communicate what he knew and wondered if John would pick up the same clues Sherlock could always, always see so clearly. But other times the look said, "I like that you see my brilliance, and I see your brilliance too." At least that's what John had always hoped it meant.

There have been other times when John suspected there might be more than just a little hint of jealousy behind that gaze, especially, when he brought woman around to the flat. The jealousy, he suspected, grew from the fact that these women took John away from Sherlock's sphere of influence. Sherlock didn't like sharing. But, every so often John wondered if it weren't a different kind jealousy. And, he found it made him happy to believe so.

Sherlock was better with John's help than without; he knew that. John harbored no delusions about the fact that Sherlock was perfectly capable of solving the most intricate and complex cases on his own but somehow, John thought, Sherlock enjoyed solving cases more when John was around. John often felt as though Sherlock needed an appreciative, and adoring audience of at least one. John served that purpose knowingly, willingly, and with a growing desire to get closer to the man he admired. There it was. His admission, he supposed.

Perhaps the best one, the one that still sent a small shiver of butterflies through his entire being was the moment in the kitchen.

John noticed that he and Sherlock had developed a special kind of camaraderie that only two men who fully support and respect each other can share. He'd had friendships like them when he served in the military. But, he recognized immediately that his rapport with Sherlock was unique.

However, as they continued working on cases together, John sensed that he had Sherlock might have moved beyond complex friendship, brotherhood or even intense respect to something else. Their close work on so many cases had been like riding a redeye, a speeding train hurtling through a series of exhilarating and challenging cases. There is nothing like it, nor would he ever felt anything like it again. John had never felt so alive as when he was with Sherlock. The more he worked with Sherlock, the more he found himself wanting to strive to be his best or at least not disappoint this most extraordinary man. But there were times that John suspected Sherlock felt the same way about him. They fought of course, often and about the strangest, stupidest things. But, never once did John feel that ever wanted him to leave. In fact, during their first month of living together they had one of their loudest arguments, and it was then John had felt the first shimmer of heat for Sherlock. That had confused him, startled him, and then amazed him. He pictured it again with ease of having revisited it many times since. He stopped thinking for a moment. Did he want to revisit this one? He wasn't sure he could stand it at this point; maybe he should just let this particular memory lie in the past.

"Sherlock!" John shouted when his flatmate had come in with the smelliest bag of something disgusting and set it on the kitchen table.

"What?" Sherlock had asked arching one shapely eyebrow in a way that displayed his complete ignorance of why John might have an objection regarding his current behavior. John sighed and watched fluid from whatever was in the bag drip off the table. The drops landed heavily onto the floor leaving a dark, vicious puddle of liquid. It looked like blood, but with Sherlock one could never tell for sure.

"I'm not cleaning that up!" John barked. Even though John knew Sherlock did everything for a good reason, he felt in no mood to clean up this particular, disgusting mess. So far in their relationship it seemed to be his job to clean up after Sherlock and today he resented it a bit more than usual.

"Then don't." Sherlock replied crisply opening the bag. "I didn't ask you to."

"Christ! What is it? Why? Why Sherlock?" John did not really want to know why Sherlock had brought this horrific thing into their flat, but his irritation couldn't be held in check. He found himself often wanting to know how such a highly intelligent man could not know how incredibly annoying he could be. John stood up suddenly, back straight, shoulders tensed and was about to storm off to his room when suddenly, to his complete surprise, Sherlock went to the sink, grabbed a damp dish towel and knelt on the floor next to the mess . The action so surprised John that he stopped midstride and simply stared at the sight of Sherlock on his knees.

Sherlock's long fingered hands clumsily dabbled the towel into the reeking fluid. The smell this action generated almost overwhelmed John and he couldn't imagine how much worse it would be for Sherlock who was practically nose deep in the stuff. John noticed that Sherlock's best efforts didn't seem to help but simply spread the sticky mess around. John's frustration grew at what he perceived to be Sherlock's feeble attempt to clean and he got ready to shout again when Sherlock looked up at him. As John stood there breathing in most noxious fumes he never smelled of his life, he saw an extraordinary thing. Sherlock had looked up at John with those beautiful, blue-green eyes and he read the one simple expression in them that said, "See John, I'm trying."

All irritation fled from him, and that had been the moment he fallen for Sherlock Holmes.

"Oh, it's alright, Sherlock," John said gently. He'd suddenly felt extraordinarily ashamed at how angry he'd been just seconds before . The overwhelming compassion he now felt for Sherlock had hit him with such startling suddenness that he didn't know what to do with the feeling.

John walked to the sink grabbed another dishtowel and knelt down beside his friend. Together they mopped up the foul mess; when they finished, Sherlock stood up with the briefest of smiles and went back to unpacking the gruesome contents of his bag. The moment had passed and Sherlock once again snapped back to his old, assured self. But, that unconditional, naked request for approval in Sherlock's expression had been there if even for the briefest of seconds, and it had moved John beyond words . The fluttery reaction it had produced in him had left John both surprised and unsettled. He hadn't known what to do with the information he now seem to possess and didn't know if he'd read it right anyway. He wasn't gay. At least that's what he'd been telling himself and everyone else who would listen to him. These particular feelings for another man had never surfaced in him before. All right, he thought. He'd just let things go and see where they went. Little did he know where they would lead him.

After that, there were a series of moments in the months to come and now it seemed John needed to replay each one in his mind's eye. He thought about the moment of pure relief when Sherlock had expressed when he'd ripped off the bomb from around John's chest at the pool. Of course they both been relieved, who wouldn't be, but again John had seen something more there. He'd seen Sherlock's profound relief after he flung the bomb away. John had seen that one moment of terror on his friend's sculptured face at the thought of losing John. At first John had thought little of it, but afterwards he'd played the moment over and over in his mind. Sherlock had been rattled far more than he'd ever seen him before or since at the prospect of losing John,

Then, there was the cool, approving smirk Sherlock had given him after he'd pulled rank at Baskerville. Sherlock had displayed a profound pride in John's self-assurance and ability to simply take many needed from the situation. And as time passed, John sensed a deeply felt sense of approval coming from Sherlock. John had never felt so deeply cared for by another human being in his life.

He wished he could have said, "I'm on your side. I'll always be on your side." He regretted he'd never told him. But, John suspected that somehow Sherlock knew.

John sighed heavily and pushed the memories aside. He took the envelope on the table and looked at it. Instinctively, he did a quick cursory search of the outside of the envelope. It seemed he hadn't lost all powers of observation he'd learned from Sherlock. The outside of the envelope contained only John Watson's name and had no return address. The stationary, expensive, sported an official looking seal on the back. John immediately thought of Mycroft.

"What could this be?" He muttered to himself, and his stomach did a small lurch. He hadn't heard from Mycroft in over two years. And quite frankly, that's how he liked it. He hadn't parted on the best terms with the man.

Inside the envelope rested a single, small sheet of parchment, and printed in a beautiful calligraphy script were the words, "Be ready."

What was this? John thought. He knew, however, he knew even with his limited powers of deduction that this was dangerous. This could possibly be most dangerous thing in his life because it most certainly had to do with Sherlock. If Sherlock had been in the room, he'd have noticed John's quickening pulse, and dilated pupils.

"The game," he might have said, "is back on!"


End file.
